


Evening Rose

by FortuneFaded2012



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Archery, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Friendship/Love, High School, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Romantic Friendship, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortuneFaded2012/pseuds/FortuneFaded2012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosemary Mellark's world is turned upside down when she starts a forbidden friendship with a boy from District 2. As things become more serious she fears the lines between past and future will become too blended. Can she keep the relationship she has with her mother from ending up in the cross-hairs?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Branches whip me in the face as I run blindly through the forest. The darkness of night envelops me from all sides, preventing my eyes from seeing the obstacles before me. My heart is pounding so loudly that I can hear it in my ears. Am I even heading in the right direction? There is no way to know because the cloudy night is preventing the moon from lighting my path. My cheeks sting with the fresh pain of cuts from the twigs that ravish my unprotected face as I run onward._

_"Rose!" A voice shrieks from somewhere in the distance to my left. I continue onward, ignoring the plea._

_"Rosemary!" The voice is nearer now. The owner is surely running as well, by the sound of it they are closing in on me. I yelp with pain when my foot catches on a log.  I feel my ankle twist painfully. My hands fly out in front of me to brace my fall to the forest floor. There is a sting that springs up in my palms, but the pain is nothing compared to the sharp throbbing of my right ankle. I gingerly press my fingers into the opening of my boot to touch the injury. The pain of my own touch causes me to cry out in pain once more. To prevent the sound from being heard I stuff my left fist into my mouth forcefully. Tears begin to seep from my eyes._

_How will I escape now? It was foolish of me to run blindly into the night. I lean my head against the nearest tree-trunk and blink into the darkness. They will find me eventually and this time I won’t put up a fight. Now all I can do is wait for the rays of early morning light to reveal me to them._

_"Rosemary!" The voice is closer now than ever. Maybe I won't have to wait until morning after all._

_Suddenly I feel a hand grasp my shoulder and shake me vigorously._

_"Rose would you wake up already, goodness I've been calling you for five minutes!"_

_This is it, I’m about to die. Maybe my death will be quick and painless._ I open my eyes and gasp in huge gulps of air. My lungs can’t seem to get enough of it. When I get control of myself I look at my assailant. My eyes focus on two glistening grey orbs. Confusion washes through me as the eyes stare at me with a questioning look.

"Mom?" I gasp and clutch my chest to stifle the fear that had been squeezing my heart just moments before. _It wasn’t real, just another nightmare._

"Rose? Are you alright?" My mother's eyes suddenly fill with concern as she sits beside me on the bed. Her course hand gently presses against my forehead to feel my temperature. I realize that I am completely drenched in a layer of sweat. She wipes my dark hair away from my sticky face and pulls the covers down to free me from the confines of my bedding.

"You look terrible. Did you have a nightmare?" My mother's tone becomes soft as she scrutinizes me with her eyes. She doesn’t usually become motherly like this. Pain is too much for her to handle.

I haven't had a nightmare about being murdered since I was young. That was back in the days when I first learned about the Hunger Games and the awful things that happened to my family and friends. I don’t think my parents have ever forgiven Haymitch for telling me.

I sigh and muster a small smile for my mother’s sake, "I'm fine, really. It was nothing. Sorry I didn't answer you."

She nods and turns her attention to my window. The bed barely shifts as she rises to walk toward it. She opens it swiftly and pins back my curtains. The breeze of an autumn wind rolls easily through the drapes. It eases the heat off of my skin. I feel my mother's gaze as she pauses at my door.

"Rose if you want to talk about it – sometimes it helps – well, I'll be downstairs." She slips from my room without another word.

I stare at the place that she had vacated. My mother the brave hunter of District 12, the victor, the hero, the Mockingjay. She is all of those things, but still at heart she is a woman afraid of the terrors of the night. I’m suddenly filled with a degree of guilt. It is silly really to feel guilty over having a nightmare, but hurting my mother, even unintentionally, is something that I have tried to steer clear of. She doesn't deserve meaningless pain.

When the nightmares used to seize me as a child my mother would always look at my guiltily, as if every terror was her fault directly. As if she had harmed me herself. My father used to tell her he could handle things and let her retreat to their bedroom down the hall. He would rub my back soothing away the fear while he whispered sweet nothings to me. After a warm glass of milk he would stay by my bedside until I drifted back to sleep.

My parents are always so protective. It's something that's both a blessing and an annoyance. I know that they will always love and support me, but everything is a potential danger to them. Now that I am older I understand that their feelings stem from their horrible pasts. Moments like this, when I scare my mother by simply having a dream, these are the moments I realize just how deeply their struggles and pain are imbedded.

My muscles are tense, but I elongate them as I rise from my bed. I feel the roll of my spine as I bend over and touch my toes to stretch my back and legs. My long black hair grazes the floor as I let the tension ease from my muscles. When I stand back up I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look wild. My cheeks are flushed and my hair is matted in some places and frizzy in others.

My intense dream didn't make sense. Who was I running from and why was I so scared? It felt like some of my old Hunger Games dreams, but it was different. It was more about being chased than about the actual death and gore. I walk softly to the window and kneal beside it. Placing my arms on the sill, I let my cheek rest gently against them.

I stay this way for several moments and let the breeze dry my face. My eyes graze over the forest in the distance. The green leaves of the trees are beginning to turn shades of bronze, maroon, and brown. Soon autumn will become winter and I'll be trudging through the snow on my way to school each morning. I let my eyes drift close. The breeze smells crisp and I inhale deeply. I try to recall my dream, but I can only recall the moments right before mom woke me. Shaking my head slightly I rise to collect clothing for the day and head toward the bathroom for a much needed shower.

When I enter the kitchen some time later I find my mother and little brother sitting at the table. When she glances up at me I give her a reassuring smile and take my seat beside Rhye. He's currently engrossed in a book he borrowed from the new library in town. It was finished a few weeks ago and nearly every day Rhye is there exchanging his pile of books for a new bunch.

"We saved you some toast and eggs," my mother says lightly as she passes me the dish of buttered wheat bread. I take it eagerly as a loud growl escapes from my stomach. As I munch happily on the bread mom spoons some scrambled eggs on my plate.

"Rhye, no books at the kitchen table," my mother scolds him and he gives her an annoyed look as he sets it down on the floor and finishes his eggs.

I find this exchange funny, because it's not as if we will be chatting much at the table anyway. Both my brother and I inherited mom's quiet demeanor, despite the fact that dad could chat your ears off. We finish our meal in silence and then Rhye glances at the clock and yelps. I shake myself from my reverie and look at him quizzically.

"We're going to be late for school if we don't leave now." He says. I nod and we both rush to our rooms to collect our books. Rhye cares deeply about academics; I on the other hand would rather be out enjoying the day.

Mom has our jackets waiting for us when we come back downstairs. She kisses each of us on the cheek before we leave saying, "Have a good day. I'll be hunting today, so I might not be here when you get back."

We bid her goodbye as we enter the crisp air and walk briskly to town. As we pass Haymitch's house we see the geese lolling about in the lawn. One honks at us as we stroll by. For as long as I’ve been alive Haymitch has had a large flock of geese following him around. When I was tiny they would chase me, trying to nip at my long hair. The old man thought it was funny until one of them nearly poked my eye out. After that he let me chase them with his cane. I smirk as I think about it.

"Shouldn't they be flying south by now?" Rhye asks as the nearest goose begins to waddle after us.

"Probably," I mutter as we quicken the pace to try and lose it. Rhye laughs as it honks angrily at us, obviously frustrated by our speed. They’re angry little bastards, but if you have a nice treat of stale bread for them they tend to forgive your previous transgressions.  

"They're getting lazy," Rhye smirks as we finally lose the fat goose at the end of Victor’s lane. We round the bushes that line the end of the road and pick up our pace even more. Rhye will kill me if we are late. He’s always worried about being punctual.

Living in Victor's Village is nice, but the walk to town is just long enough that it can make the difference between being late and being on time. Rhye wipes his blond hair from his eyes as we finally reach the schoolyard where a large mass of students is entering the building. The last few years have really seen an increase in new students as more families move to the district. It’s a nice place to raise children and a fantastic place to escape city life.

"Just made it," Rhye says happily as he closes the gate behind me.

Through the mass of people I see my friend Amelie. When I catch her eye she waves excitedly and pushes through the crowd to reach me. Amelie is tall and thin with tan skin and bronze hair. Her green eyes flare excitedly as she finally is within distance of me.

"Rose, guess what! We've got some new students," she smiles broadly at me. I let her loop her arm around mine as we walk up the front steps to the building. She always gets excited when she has the opportunity to meet new friends.

Amelie is extremely personable and knows practically everyone at school by name. She could probably strike up a conversation with anyone. It's funny really that we somehow ended up friends. What with me being the silent type. She can barely contain her excitement as she explains to me that the new students came from District 2 where their father used to be a government official. Apparently their dad was one of the original people who escaped the bombing of District 12 during my parent's participation in the Quarter Quell. As Amelie yammers on excitedly about the family we walk toward our first class. Our professor Ms. Cartwright smiles at us warmly as we enter and everyone settles in their seats.

Delly Cartwright is a good family friend, one who played with my father as a child and supported my parents through the tribulations of the war. When I'm at school we try to pretend we don't know each other so personally, otherwise people might think I get special treatment. Even if I didn't know her though, she would definitely be one of my favorite professors. She explains everything with such ease and enthusiasm. It's hard not to get excited about work for her class.

Delly writes the title 'Creative Writing' in a loopy easy cursive across the blackboard. She wipes the chalk from her palms and looks back at us brightly, "Today we will be learning about creative writing". Her warm smile spreads across the room. Some of my classmates smile back, while others mumble about how they hate poetry, etc.

Amelie looks positively giddy beside me and I roll my eyes at her. My level of creativity is most likely about the same as a seven year olds. I know already that I will probably fail miserably at the impending assignment.

"After today's lesson I want each of you to think about your life. Look at everything with bright new eyes. Try to learn something different about yourself. Write about it, preferably a few pages, it will be due in one week."

My heart falls as I begin to ponder the things about me that could possibly be interesting. Yep, I am definitely going to be receiving an awful grade on this assignment. Delly reads aloud from our English textbook and writes important terms on the board. After an hour we hear the bell for our second class and I begin to collect my notes and stuff them into my leather bag.

As we push into the massive crowd of students in the hallway Amelie begins our conversation right where she left off, "So, there are three of them, but I heard they have an older brother who stayed in District 2 to work at some factory. The middle of the three is in our year, I hear he's really handsome. Actually, I heard they all are good looking. The older one is a girl named Ivana. I saw her this morning in the schoolyard; she could be a Capitol model for sure."

Amelie keeps talking as we head toward the east hallway. I nod at the appropriate parts of her conversation and then pretend to look surprised that the older sister could be beautiful enough to be a model in the Capitol.

When Amelie sees my expression she says, "No really, she was gorgeous. Definitely has seam blood in her because she has perfect olive skin and satiny dark hair." She mats her own bright bronze hair down with her hand as she says this and we continue to the last door on the right.

Mr. Harper's classroom is far louder that Ms. Cartwright’s had been. As we enter and approach our seats by the window we notice a group of students by the back corner. They are huddled around a boy and they are all chatting excitedly. The boy – no man – more like it, looks like he is a little perplexed by the fervor that he is creating in our classmates. I set my books on my desk and glance at Amelie.

'That's him!' She mouths. Her green eyes are bright with excitement as she turns towards me and makes a motion like her heart is gushing. I roll my eyes at her and smile. I glance back at the group in the corner, mostly girls of course. Then, I allow myself to look more closely at the boy. He has the 'seam look' about him, just like Amelie described his sister. His olive skin matches mine and his dark hair although not black, is a very dark brown that curls slightly at the nape of his neck. He is tall and his long legs stretch out in front of him where he leans on his desk. I'm not usually the type to care about how men look, but Amelie was really quite right when she said he was handsome. Suddenly I noticed that his eyes are watching me as I analyze him. A slight heat creeps across my neck and face as I blush. I turn my head back toward the front of the room and toss a sheepish look at Amelie.

She smirks and whispers, "I told you he was a sight for sore eyes." I ignore her comment and take my seat. I’m sure I’ll get another earful from Amelie later, but now I need to focus on class.

Mr. Harper, who is wearing a particularly drab sweater vest today, clears his throat and the group of students returns to their seats so that he can begin class. After pushing his dark glasses up with his pointer finger, Mr. Harper's dull voice notifies us that we had a new student today. _Not that we hadn't all noticed already or anything_ , I think wryly.

"Mr. Hawthorne comes from District 2 and I hope that you all make him feel welcome here. Now that we have that squared away lets return to the history of the revolution." There is an audible sigh around me.

Everyone hates learning history this year. Perhaps it is the tedious nature with which our professor wants us to know every single name and date of certain rebellion events. Or maybe perhaps it is the fact that his dull voice drones on to the point where you begin to feel sleepy. Regardless, even I don't enjoy it much and I have always loved learning about the past.

Today however, instead of thinking about how bored I am, my mind is drifting to the boy behind me. Hawthorne. I knew the odds were stacked against me from the moment his name left Mr. Harper's lips. The Hawthorne's that I knew of were old residents of District 12 during my mother and father's childhood. One of them in particular was my mother's best friend. A man who she once thought she loved. A man who tore her heart in two when my Aunt Primrose died. A man who moved to District 2. A man who took on a government position. _Oh shit,_ I think as I nibble on my finger. _This won’t be good for mom._

My mind drifts back to the conversation earlier. Amelie had affirmed some of these things when she was telling me the history of the family; therefore, it is undoubtedly true. He has to be Gale Hawthorne's son, which makes him undeniably off limits to me as a friend. My chin rests on my palm as I stare out the window beside me. A swallow is nestled on a branch chirping. Through the glass his song is soundless. _Gale Hawthorne's son_ , my mind keeps rolling those words over and over like they will take shape and form some sense.

Then my thoughts drift to my mother again, what would she think about her long lost friend returning? A painful memory slips into the forefront of my mind.

_We had been watching the nightly newscast on the television in the living room. My parents were snuggled together on the couch and Rhye was lying on his stomach in front of the screen. A story came on about a new factory in District 2 and the man cutting the ribbon at the opening ceremony was tall and dashing. My mother let out an audible breath of air when he flashed his smile for the cameras. "Gale" she had whispered and gave my father a strangled look. She stood silently and retreated to the kitchen._

_When Rhye and I gave dad questioning looks he just mumbled something about going to help my mother make some tea. When I crept toward the kitchen door I heard my mother sobbing. I peeked my head around the frame to see her pressing her face into my father's shoulder. I hated watching her cry like that, so uncontrollable and frail._

_She just kept murmuring "Prim, Prim, Prim," Over and over again._

I shake my head to rid the memory of my mother's wails from my mind. I had later learned that my mother blamed Gale for my aunt's death. She had tried desperately to forgive him. She told me herself, but memories consumed her and she couldn't bear to look at him without feeling bile rise in her throat. That must have been painful losing a friend as well as a sister.

I waste so much class time thinking about unrelated things, that I don’t even realize we’ve finished until Amelie elbows me roughly. I grimace, but nod at her thanks for forcing me back into reality. Her eyebrows are furrowed slightly as she appraises me, then she just smiles once more and packs up her books.

I part ways with Amelie. She’ll be heading to her art class for the next period; we’ll meet up later for lunch like always.  The halls are busy like usual, I have to force my way through the bodies as I make my way back to the schoolyard for fitness class. Today we will be doing archery on the back lawn. My heart swells with excitement. Finally something I am good at! I place my leather bag by the fence and stand silently beside a group of boys who are discussing dates for the Autumn Festival. I smile into the breeze and place my hand over my eyes to guard them from the sun as I watch a swallow sail easily above the targets at the end of the field. I wonder momentarily if it is the same swallow I had been watching during class.

When I look back toward the group of students I realize there is someone next to me. It’s Hawthorne. Now that we are standing beside each other I can tell that he is much taller than I had judged him to be; possibly taller than 6ft. He is looking towards the targets with a small smile. His closeness allows me to see the deep grey of his eyes. They are darker than my mother's, but they still are the essence of 'seam'.

When this was a mining town and the coal workers only married others of their kind everyone had olive complexions, dark hair, and light eyes. If you lived in town and had the luck of being from a merchant family you more than likely had a light complexion and eyes, like my father. As we stand beside each other I think about how we represent the old. Two 'seam brats' contrasting against the fair skinned people standing near us. With the revolution and the repopulation of District 12 the gene pool has been given a fresh kick and people of every size, shape, and color are raising children here. I think of Amelie with her bronze hair and tan skin. She told me once that her family originally hailed form District 4 where the sea and sun bleached hair and darkened skin.

As I watch him Hawthorne’s smile becomes brighter. All at once I realize that he is completely aware that I am scrutinizing him again. This time my blush feels deeper than ever. He speaks before I can walk away shamefully.

"I bet you can shoot an arrow with your eyes closed and not miss." His voice is deep with a silky tone. I blink for a moment at his words.

Then I push the blush back down and muster a response, "Yeah." _Well_ , I think dumbly, _that was really witty of you Rose. You are really killing him with charm._

"You learned from the best," he states meeting my gaze unwaveringly.

I nod, and then a thought occurs to me, "How would you know who I learned from?" I ask him. My heart is pounding furiously for some unknown reason. He smiles and I notice that he has one crooked tooth. _Ah! The flaw in the design_.

"Well your bag over there, it has Mellark sewn in it." He gestures toward my brown leather satchel by the fence. My father had sewn my name in it for me several years ago. His expert hands had easily pierced the leather with a thick needle. That bag used to be my mother's hunting bag. It smelled of animal fur, but I loved it from the time I was a child. I begged my mother to let me have it when I was ten. She obliged, laughing at me as I whooped for joy! My very own game bag. Now its purpose is mainly for schoolbooks, but someday I will use it to provide for my family.

"Oh." I mutter, "Yeah." I stare back at the targets again. This time the swallow has disappeared.

"And your last name is Hawthorne," I state blankly, not taking my eyes off the big red and white circles that are propped against bales of hay. He doesn’t respond and I can feel that he is scrutinizing me with those deep grey eyes, just as I had done to him. I wonder what he is thinking. Is he saying to himself what a mess this could be? _What a morbid pair we make. Two children who belong to a past love triangle._

A sharp whistle sounds to our left as the fitness professor jogs to the center of the crowd and announces the rules of this session. She divides us into pairs and sure enough Hawthorne is my partner. She provides a bow to each pair and instructs us to take turns with the targets. She will blow the whistle when we can begin shooting and blow twice when we are supposed to stop to collect arrows. Everyone nods and takes their places, making several lines about 50 yards from the six targets.

"After you," Hawthorne says as he hands me the bow. I take it and prepare my first arrow.

When I hear the first long whistle I take aim at our target and let my arrow fly with ease. I feel a surge of pride when it pierces the center of the inner circle, a perfect bulls-eye. I smirk as I hand him the bow. He raises an eyebrow at me as if saying 'is that a challenge'. Even if it was a wordless one, he gladly accepts it. He prepares his arrow and I watch his stance. He knows exactly what he is doing alright. His father probably taught him. My eyes follow the arrow as it soars toward our target. It hits the center circle about two inches to the left of mine. He turns around and grins at me broadly. _Challenge accepted Hawthorne_ , I think as I nod my acceptance of his abilities.

“I hope you are used to being beat by girls,” I mutter under my breath as he walks back to me.

He offers the bow to me with a smug look. I gladly take it into my capable hands and string my second arrow. Without even glancing at him I shoot. The second arrow splinters through my first, splitting it in two and piercing the target in the exact same place.

"Huh,” he says putting his hands on his hips.

"Well, I can't beat that,” he jokes with a note of laughter in his voice.

I smile at him broadly as I tell him, "I learned from the best."

After a few rounds of our little competition we hear the double whistle that means we can go retrieve our arrows. Our professor praises both of us for hitting the target so expertly. We both nod our thanks. We are easily head and neck above the rest of our classmates in skill. I hear a few girls gushing as I walk over to get my bag.

When the class ended I had pretty much blown our mini-competition out of the water. Mom would be delighted.  Every shot I made was in the center circle. I proudly pull the last batch of arrows from the target when the class is finished. Hawthorne follows me when I retrieve my bag. His soft footsteps are barely audible beside me. I wonder briefly how much hunting he has done. His silent footfalls tell me that he wouldn't be half bad as a partner. He’s deadly silent, he’s an awesome shot, and he doesn’t seem to talk much.

"Do you have someone to eat lunch with?" He asks softly as we begin walking along the fence back toward the school.

My heart leaps into my throat and I send a side-long glance his way. _He wants to eat lunch with me?_ What planet does he think we live on? We shouldn't have been talking to each other in the first place. My mother would have been proud that I outdid him at shooting, but what would she say about fraternizing with him! My father would be angry if I didn’t at least extend some common courtesy to this boy though.  Dad’s voice wins in the battle of my wills.

I swallow and reply, "I eat with my friend, but if you want to join us you can. We usually meet up inside and then come eat under the willow tree." He nods and follows me toward the dining hall. Sometimes I bring my lunch, but unfortunately today I didn’t have time to pack it. It’ll be mediocre dining hall food for me today. Hopefully I remember to get up on time tomorrow to pack something delicious.

When I find Amelie she looks comically from me to Hawthorne and back to me again. She doesn’t skip a beat and masks her surprise by excitedly introducing herself. Then she promptly begins asking a series of questions. The three of us join the line that is meandering in a snake-like pattern from the lunch counter. When we have each piled our plates Amelie explains that we like to eat outside except for on days when the weather prevents us.

We walk to our favorite lunch spot and begin eating our food in silence. Amelie doesn't let the quiet seep between us for long. Her musical voice chatters on about the events of her art class. Apparently Ethan Dune spilled an expensive brand of paint all over another student's painting. He is known as the resident klutz; which she informs Hawthorne as she regales him with her story.

Eventually the topic falls to his life back in District 2. Amelie sure is good at talking with strangers. I watch her smile at him and listen as he describes his old school. It sounds like a much busier place than District 12. _I wonder what he thinks of all the forest space here_.

Suddenly a frown creeps across Amelie’s face as she appears to remember something. "I'm sorry. I forgot to ask you your name!" She says laughing as she shakes her head at her rudeness.

Hawthorne smiles at her at her good naturedly as he tells her, "Hunter". I glance up from my apple, intrigued. _What an odd name._ It makes sense of course, but strange really. He turns to me and I find myself staring at his long eyelashes. _I’m done, if I’m supposed to stay clear of him it will be impossible. What have I gotten myself into?_

"And what's your name Mellark?" He asks. I swallow the apple chunk and ignore Amelie's confused look.

"Rosemary, but I prefer Rose," I bite into my apple again with fervor.

"Rose here shot an arrow straight through another one today," he says as he hooks his thumb in my direction.

Amelie laughs, "That's nothing new. She's the best archer in the district; some people think she's better than her mother!" I listen to them chat as I focuse on my food.

_Better than my mother at something? What a crock of shit that is_. I smile though and pull my knees in close to my chest. Things are probably going to get interesting tonight when I tell her who I met at school.

* * *

When I finish my classes for the day I wait by the front gate for Rhye. I mindlessly pick at a hangnail as I think about how I am going to tell my mother the Hawthorne's are in town. When Rhye approaches he has a large box tucked under his right arm.

"Hey Rose," he nods his hello and we begin to trek through town. He sighs as he shifts the large box to grasp it with his left arm.

We walk in silence for a few moments before curiosity gets the better of me, "What's in the box?"

Rhye adjusts it once more, "For dad, from Delly. She wants me to drop it off at the bakery, said he would be waiting for it."

It isn’t unusual for someone to send us home with something to trade with our parents. I'm sure my father had promised a certain amount of baguettes or banana bread loaves for whatever this item is. As we cross the town square my eyes fall on the fountain in the center. It was created in honor of our parents. Every time I look at it my heart skipps a beat. A mockingjay with a twig in its beak and flames rising beneath its body. It is meant to represent the rebellion and the hope of rebirth from the ashes of the district.

As we approach the bakery I listen to the soft click of our shoes on the cobblestones. They were placed in the square long before I was born when people returned here to rebuild. The outlying streets are mostly made of dirt and gravel, but here in town the square was given stones. I’ve always loved the sound of them beneath my feet.

Several people are standing at the window to the bakery admiring a three tiered cake that has been placed in the window. I smile as it comes into view. My heart swells at the sight. My father's hands can make the most delicate and beautiful things. We nod our hellos to the onlookers as I open the shop door for my brother. The familiar ding of the shop bell rings through the air as we enter.

My father's voice floats to us from the back where he is probably removing something from the ovens, "Welcome to Mellark's bakery. I'll be with you in a moment." The aroma of bread fills my nostrils and makes my skin feel warm with delight.

Rhye sets his burden down on the shop counter and peers into the nearest case. He has his eye on a particularly fat chocolate chip cookie, his favorite. I set my bag down on the ground and roll my eyes at the fact that my father is leaving the register and shop unattended yet again. He is so trusting for a man who is overprotective of his children.

"It's just us Mellark kids, we're here to rob you and take all the bread we can get our hands on," I called back jokingly and I step behind the counter.

I enter the kitchen area where the heat of the ovens hits me like a brick wall. My father has the sleeves of his blue shirt pulled up around his elbows. His white apron is filthy as always and his face and hands are covered in flour. I put on an oven mitt to help him remove the trays of bread. He smiles warmly at me and wipes sweat off his brow with his forearm.

"How was school today?" He asks as he pulls some loaves from the first rack. When he goes to place them on the counter to cool I pull out the second rack and follow his motion.

"It was alright," my standard response of course, followed by my standard question: "How were sales today?"

Dad begins to tell me about who came in throughout the day and that everyone really wanted donuts this morning, but he hadn't made a batch. Then he told me about the cake in the window, "The Englestein’s daughter is getting married tomorrow and I thought I would put the cake on display for an afternoon. Maybe it will drum up some good business."

I scoff at this. Business is always good here. Everyone knows that my father is the best baker around. I feel perspiration begin to seep through my clothes, something you can't avoid when you are near the open mouths of the ovens. It is wonderful in the winter months, but any other time of year it really stifles you.

A thought occurrs to me, _I could tell my father about the boy I met today and he could tell my mother_. Then the burden would be off my shoulders completely. As I am about to articulate my next thought Rhye enters the room with a cookie in his hand. I smirk, I knew he couldn't resist taking it. Dad gives Rhye a reproachful look and continues removing racks of bread. Rhye doesn’t seem to notice that he shouldn’t be spoiling his dinner.

"Why are you making so many loaves so late in the day?" Rhye asks as he munches on the cookie and watches us. Dad explains that he is giving some to the Engelstein's daughter for a wedding gift. All the loaves will be served at the feast after the toasting ceremony. The rest is for Delly. _My theory was correct then, some kind of barter had occurred between her and Dad._

"Oh, that's right! We brought you a box from Delly," Rhye mumbles with a full mouth. My father nods as he wipes his hands on his apron.

I remove my hot oven mitt and follow them into the shop. The heat of the ovens licks at my back as we enter the cooler air. I listen distractedly as my brother and father talk about the contents of the box. I decide to examine the cake in the window. The gentle curve of the frosting flowers, primroses. They are so realistic, lifelike, as if they were picked from the row beside our house. I notice that a large braided loaf of bread is displayed proudly beside the cake. This will be Cora Englestein’s toasting loaf. She and her fiancé will toast pieces before they feed them to each other, offering promises of love and long health.

I enjoy admiring the breads, pastries, and deserts designed by my father. Silently I walk along the room looking at every display. I giggle when I reach the case that contains Rye bread, for which my brother was named. Right beside it are some little pocket breads, Pita, for which I have always been certain my father was named. Thankfully, my name-sake is a plant rather than a food.

I join them at the register counter, lifting myself up to sit on it with my feet dangling over the side. I peer into the now open box. A pair of shiny black boots lay perfectly inside, waiting for my mother to slip them on. Her birthday is coming up. Dad must have had Delly order them so that Mom wouldn't suspect anything when our train shipment came.

"That was pretty sly of you, dad,” I say as I admire the boots.

He laughs and closes the lid, "Let's keep this a secret, okay?" He eyes both of us, his eye brows high. We both nod and cross our hearts that we won’t let it slip.

Later we help dad wrap the loaves of bread and place them in boxes to be delivered tomorrow. As we fold the loaves my earlier thoughts come forth again, "I met someone at school today. A new family moved to town." I start coolly as I keep my eyes trained on the task at hand. Rhye affirms that he had heard of them as well, from District 2 he states.

I shoot a glance at my brother before I continue, "Yeah, the father was from here. An original citizen of 12.” This peaks my father's interest and his sky blue eyes look up excitedly.

He loves connecting with people of that older time. I smile softly and lower my matching eyes from his; I focus on the next loaf that needs wrapping. _I can do this, what am I waiting for?_

"You knew him quite well and so did mom," I say evenly as I bite my bottom lip in preparation for my next line. My father has questions in his eyes and I find that I can't look away this time when the words leave my mouth, "Gale Hawthorne."

I hear a soft thud as Rhye drops his loaf on the counter. It could have been an accident, but I know it's because that name is taboo in our household. I want to steal my eyes away from my father's but he has a distant look on his face.

He quickly composes himself and clears his throat before he speaks, "I should be the one to tell your mother." I nod and finish placing the loaf inside the box.

He doesn't say anything else, which is unusual. If it had been anyone besides Gale, he would have told us stories about them or inquired about what their children are like. The rest of our time at the bakery is completed in silence. Rhye and I exchange meaningful looks as we watch our father place the wedding cake back in the walk-in fridge. We help him remove the items from shelves and seal up the display cases.

The three of us walk home as it is turning dusk. I pull the collar of my jacket up to my chin as I feel the air chill me. The light breeze from earlier seems stronger and colder against my face. My thoughts begin to drift ahead of us across the streets of 12 and into Victor's Village. I can imagine my mother at home cleaning the game that she shot today and preparing our dinner. I also imagine the thoughts that are running through dad's head. He is probably planning how to break the news simply and painlessly. _How will she react?_

When we enter the house we find my mother standing at the stove stirring a stew. The smell of it brings hunger to my stomach. I kiss mom's cheek as I set my schoolbooks on the counter. She looks lovely today, happy and fresh from the wind being at her cheeks. Dad mimics my action when I step away and he places a loaf of bread on the cutting board. Rhye immediately plops himself on one of the chairs in the living room with a book in his lap.

"Squirrel stew tonight," Mom says as she stirs the pot in front of her. I begin cutting the bread with a large knife while dad sets the table silently. Mom asks about my day and my shoulders immediately tense. I look at my father as if to say, 'help me.' He sees my strangled face and clears his throat as he places glasses on the table.

"Rose met someone new at school today," he says nonchalantly. I start chewing on the rounded end-piece of the loaf.

Mom smiles at me, but doesn't ask for information about the new student. She has never been much for gossip and stories. I am grateful. I retrieve a basket from its place perched on the wall and set a cloth napkin inside before I fill it with the sliced bread.

After several moments the stew is done and the four of us sit at the table to enjoy our meal. Mom has to shoot a pointed look at Rhye so that he places his book on the floor while we eat. Dad regales us with the events of his day, telling mom about the impending wedding. I exchange a heated look with my father as he babbles on about an older lady who visited the bakery today. He swallows thickly at my gaze and looks towards my mother.

"Katniss, the boy that Rose met today. His father used to be a resident of District 12,” my father begins softly.

Mom looks intrigued as she chews a piece of squirrel meat. She smiles in a way that would normally encourage dad to continue his story. He swallows thickly again and looks between me and Rhye. Rhye looks like he might be preparing to bolt if mom doesn't take this well. I on the other hand, am looking at the utensils next to mom's plate, ready to snatch them away from her reach at any moment.

Dad clears his throat and continues, "It's someone we know pretty well actually," Dad looks apprehensive as he sets his silverware down on his plate and grabs for her hand. She gazes down at their intertwined fingers and then glances back into his eyes. I can see the thoughts registering in her eyes. She knows there is something wrong.

"Gale's come back with his family," I watch the words escape dad's lips and brace my hands against the table until the knuckles turn white. I scan mom's face hesitantly. I don't see any emotion spreading across her features or settling in her eyes. Then she just smiles softly and nods never taking her eyes off my father's bold blue orbs.

"I knew he would someday," she says as she picks up her knife to butter a slice of bread. She stares at her hands as they work the objects for a few moments. Then she bites her lip and turns to me.

"Was your new classmate nice?" She asks. I see something strange in her eyes and I nod my head simply in response.

"Hunter. He has a sister and brother here too and an older brother back in District 2," mom just smiles softly at my words and chews on her food slowly.

"He's in my fitness class. My archery partner actually," I turn back to my meal, glad that this is going more smoothly than I intended. I feel my shoulders lose their previous tension.

"He was really good, but I was way better. He says I learned from the best," I smirk. Mom and dad exchange a hearty laugh, which relieves my tension even more. I finally allow myself to enjoy the food and reach for a slice of bread before I continue, "I shot a perfect bulls-eye and then my next arrow went clean through that shot, splitting the first one in half!" I laugh to myself at the audacity of the perfect shot.

Mom laughs again, "Wow, that's definitely a once in a lifetime shot. Wonderful Rose." She pats my forearm lovingly and I smile broadly at her, pleased with myself.

"Maybe we should invite your friend and his family to dinner soon," mom suggests nonchalantly. Dad gapes at her, his spoon dangling halfway on the way to his mouth. After a moment he recovers and gives her a questioning look.

"Are you sure Katniss? Are you ready?" When dad looks at her in that loving way it always makes my heart melt. I glance at Rhye who has his book on his lap and is trying to secretively read it under the table as he chomps loudly on his bread. I roll my eyes at him and turn back to the riveting conversation between my parents.

"Yeah. Maybe." Is all my mother says, but that is enough to make my insides crawl with twenty emotions.

 


	2. Face to Face

The house is quiet. I wonder briefly if my mother is almost ready to go. It's Saturday morning and we always hunt together for the entire day. It is sort of a bonding ritual we have. Like the silent time that Dad and Rhye spend together in the attic studio. Dad paints and Rhye reads. It's a companionable silence they have over appreciating art. Mom and I have to stay silent for the purpose of actually catching game, but we whisper stories to each other. She is always the most vibrant in the woods and she says that I come alive there too.

I tie my long hair back and zip my leather jacket before I close my bedroom door softly. I walk gingerly toward my parent's bedroom and peer through the crack of the partially open door. My mother's thin form is huddled in a mass of blankets. She is staring at the opposite wall. I sigh, because this is going to be _one of those days_.

On days like this, it is evident that my mother is being consumed by some deep depression. I've grown accustomed to this happening. When I was very young, it used to happen quite often. As I grew up and my mother became happier with her life and time had brought her farther away from her demons, she didn't slip away from us as frequently.

Over the years, my father has let her have these days. Days where she checks out from reality. Tonight when he comes home he will force her to eat and lay with her talking to her tenderly. I can never be around when this happens, because it hurts my heart how much my father loves her. When my mother needs him like this, I see all too clearly what they have been through and it is simply too painful to think about.

I walk as quietly as possible down the staircase to retrieve a glass of cool water from the kitchen sink. I gulp it down quickly, smacking my lips in content before I fill the glass once more. When I return to my parent's bedroom door I knock softly. I know she won't answer me, but I do it as a courtesy. I enter the room and set the glass on the bedside table. She doesn't acknowledge my presence in the room. Her eyes are trained on an invisible spot on the opposing wall. I crawl slowly across the bed and slide my body behind hers.

"Good morning mama," my voice is gentle, as quiet as I can manage.

As I nestle in close to her a distinct smell surrounds me. The blankets smell like my parents. Tentatively I reach my hand forward to spread my fingers through my mother's long dark hair. I brush it down her back softly. She releases a contented sigh, but she just continues to stare off into nothing. I feel like I am coaxing a wounded animal.

"I brought you a glass of water," I say as I pull my fingers through a knot in one of her tresses.

When I have tamed her long locks I place my thin arm around the lump of blankets where her waist should be. I like hugging my mother. Right now she is unresponsive, but when she is having a good day she hugs me back fiercely. I sigh as I squeeze her and the mass of blankets tightly. She has always been thin, but in the last few years she seems to have put on quite a few pounds. Dad likes to pinch the fat below her belly button and make her shriek in laughing protest. Dad says a baker's family should have a few extra pounds on them, which always makes mom roll her eyes. She sure doesn't complain about the snacks he brings her at the end of the day though.

"I think I am going to go check the snares and hunt for a while. I'll be back in the afternoon," I tell her softly as I nestle my face against her warm cheek. She still smells lovely, like the garden and the forest.

My mother hums a response to me, which is more than I've gotten from her on her worst days. I pat her hair down once more before I rise from the bed and grasp my hands on the cool glass of water. When I reach the other side of the bed I kneel down beside her and her eyes focus on me for a moment. I hold the glass close to her face and she tips her head to let me coax some of the water past her lips. This pleases me, because I don't want to leave her here without getting some fluids in her. When I am satisfied that she has gotten enough I place the glass back on the nightstand. My mother rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. _Movement, also a good sign_ , I muse.

"Mama, let me fix your blankets," I say as I tug her out of the tangled mess.

I float the sheet up over her and then the blanket. A gust of air passes beneath each before they settle squarely on the bed. Satisfied with her coverings I go to the window and crack it open to let some fresh air flow through. My father must have closed it this morning. He likes to sleep with it open.

I'm satisfied with how I will have to leave her. Now I feel that she will be fine until I come home. I can tell by the immense quiet of the house that Rhye must be off somewhere with friends or possibly reading in the meadow. Maybe he will venture home at lunch and coax some food into her.

"Alright, get some rest," I say softly, even though I know that she is only going to wallow in some deep dark place all day. The realm of buried memories.

"I love you," I murmur as I press my lips to her forehead. She hums a response again and I smile.

Once I am back downstairs I immediately set to packing my lunch and preparing myself for the hunt. I lace my boots up quickly as I munch on a piece of toast. I make quick work of removing my school books from the leather game bag I carry. I pause as I look at the name _Mellark_ , sewn by my father some time ago. Hunter had mentioned it during archery the first time we spoke to each other. It was how he identified me. My lunch contents fit in the now empty bag with ease. I sling it over my shoulder as I go to the mud room in the back of the house to retrieve my bow.

As I step into the sunlight of the back yard I hear the geese honking noisily across the street. I shuffle quickly across the yard in hopes of avoiding them undetected. No such luck. One catches sight of me and tries to nip at my heels as I scurry toward the area that used to be the Seam. My bag and quiver of arrows rattle against my back as I jog ahead of the goose. _A narrow escape_ , I laugh as I finally lose my assailant. _Rhye is right, they are getting lazy_.

As I approach the meadow I see Rhye and one of the girls from his class lying on a large plaid blanket in the grass. I smirk and wonder briefly if he is sweet on her. Both of them have their faces stuffed into books. Beside them there is a precarious pile of varying books. The girl's hair is blowing gently in the breeze as she turns the page and takes a sidelong glance at my brother. She's definitely sweet on him at least. A few bronze leaves float passed me on the autumn breeze. When I reach my brother and his friend I greet them with a smirk on my face.

"Hey," Rhye says in response, never looking up from his book. The girl exchanges a glance with me and I notice that her eyes are an interesting shade of green. She smiles shyly at me and returns to her book.

"Mom's not-um-feeling well today," I say slowly as I absentmindedly tap my bow against my leg. My left hand is fiddling with the hem of my leather jacket. Rhye glances up at me and sighs. He gets what I mean. He places a hand between the pages he is reading and closes the book, effectively holding his place. I can see that he is chewing the inside of his cheek.

"I'll check on her during lunch," he says finally. I nod and we stare at each other for a moment before I glance at the woods. Rhye is looking at me fully now, taking in the bow and bag. He glances at the tree line and then returns his silver eyes to me.

"Be careful if you are going alone, you know how dad feels about you going off by yourself in there."

I huff at him in response, because I don't really feel like getting a dad lecture from my little brother. Especially in the presence of a girl I don't really know. I roll my eyes and nod at him before I begin to back away. The girl waves at me meekly. The breeze has really caught her hair up now. Rhye has noticed too and he smiles at her softly. The whole idea of my kid brother liking a girl has got me feeling a little strange. Conflicted really, because he's young still, but it is _sort of_ cute.

When I reach the edge of the forest my whole body seems to start releasing tension. Being in the forest has always soothed my heart and nerves. The crisp smell of the air and the sweet smell of the grass and trees are comforting. I close my eyes for a moment and let the sensations and sound of the forest envelope me. If I didn't have classes to attend I think that I would be perfectly content to hunt, trap, and fish every day of the week. When I come out with my mother it is always a time to connect with each other. We sense each other's movements and communicate with barely a few words or gestures. My mother always told me that my bow was an extension of myself. Sometimes I believe her, because my movements with it are so fluid and natural.

I easily disappear into the shade of the forest. Our first snare line is to the East, about a fifteen minute walk from the entrance. The autumn leaves are beginning to pile onto the ground of my path. They crunch slightly under tread. I listen to my own steps and try to focus on the woods around me. The rustle of the trees is almost eerie sometimes, but I still have a deep sense of calm being here.

When I reach the first snare I see that it has been tripped, but it is empty. Upon closer examination I see a tuft of grey fur pinched between the knots. A close call for that rabbit, it must have stumbled right over it. I reset the snare cautiously. Snares are not one of my strong suits, so I always take care with them. The second snare gives me better luck, because I am greeted with the lovely sight of a fat squirrel. I place it in my bag to skin later. The rest of the snares on this line haven't been tripped so I continue further into the forest toward our second line. It is set close to the lake.

I follow the soft trickling of the stream that empties from the lake. My bow is drawn in case I encounter an animal drinking somewhere along my path. I see a few birds, but I'm not that interested in shooting them down. Once I reach the second line of snares I smile broadly. Two large rabbits are waiting for me, entrapped and dangling. I place them happily in my bag and whistle a little tune as I reset the snares. Once I have skinned them I will be able to sell their furs in town. Since my mom isn't feeling well today I will bring one home for dinner and probably trade the other with someone.

I forage for some plants and berries after that. Blackberries have been growing on the west side of the lake, so I spend a lot of time choosing the best berries from the bunch. I pile them gingerly in a container that I brought along. I taste a few and eat a chunk of cheese with them for lunch. My thermos of tea has cooled considerably, but I gladly swallowed gulps of it. For a short while I sit enjoying the soft breeze beside the lake before I continue picking plants to sell to the apothecary.

My parents have a very detailed plant book in the living room. When I was younger I used to try and memorize every page. I would ask my father to quiz me all the time. He usually happily played along. He developed strategies to try and trick me. I smile as I think about this. When we were young Rhye and I enjoyed playing with Dad just as much as with other kids. He's still great with children. I often get the sneaking suspicion that he lets a bunch of the neighborhood kids have free cookies after school some days.

After I am satisfied with my haul of herbs and plants I make the several hour trek back toward the district. It is still early in the afternoon and I don't really feel like heading home so I decide to keep at it for a while longer. I stake out a large oak tree, then sling my bow over my shoulder alongside my loaded bag and quiver. It takes me two attempts to grasp the right notches in the tree to heave myself up. My hands slide on the branches as I climb. I pick a nice large clump of branches to rest in. It's an advantageous spot, where I can watch for animals passing toward the water source. The minutes begin to seep into what feels like hours and I don't see a single animal. The bark against my back is rough, but comforting as I sit perched high in my oak tree. The surrounding trees are whispering their leaves against each other in the gentle breeze.

I let my eyes slide through the trees, watching for movements. When I sweep them back toward the right I see a brown mass moving slowly behind some brush. After a moment the head and shoulders of a doe emerge. I lick my chapped lips before I silently notch my arrow on my bowstring. The doe moves into an open area and bends her head to eat some vegetation. She has her hind side to me, which won't give me a clear shot. My bow is hovering ready before me.

I make a soft click noise with my mouth. The doe springs her head up, skittish at the sound. I repeat the sound and she turns toward me with her ears perked high. She is ready to bolt. If I don't shoot now, she might bound off in the opposite direction. As if of its own accord, I find my arrow flying through the air straight between the shoulders of the doe and hopefully into the heart. A shot to the heart is the best way to take a deer down, or at least that's my mother's opinion.

Immediately the doe's body shakes with the force of the shot. She staggers off noisily into the brush. She won't get far with that injury. I sling my bow over my shoulder and drop my game bag at the base of the oak tree before I swing myself onto the nearest branch. I dangle for a moment before dropping myself to the ground. My knees shake with the impact, but I barely notice it as I run toward the spot the doe vacated. Careful inspection of the grass and underbrush shows thick droplets of crimson blood. I follow the broken branches and bloodied grass for a few paces before I find the thick body of the deer. She is taking in deep shuddering breaths. I kneel beside the beast and rest my hand on the chest.

This is the biggest animal I have ever taken down. She's majestic almost. Her breath is huffing hotly against me, a strange noise heaving in her chest. I pull my broken arrow from her thick body and sigh. It's snapped in the middle. Probably it broke when she fell to the ground. I toss it aside and stare down at the deer. The last breath has escaped her bloodied mouth. I sit cross-legged beside her, pondering my next move. A whole deer is heavy even for a man to drag through the forest, how will I get her back to town? The meat that can be collected from her will surely make me a mint at the butcher's shop.

For a moment I tap my bow mindlessly against my knee as I let my thoughts drift to venison steaks, burgers, and sausages. My dreams of juicy tough meat are halted when someone clears their throat behind me. My body startles and I twist around onto my knees quickly to see who has frightened me. Hunter is standing about ten feet away, wearing a thick black vest that is lined with knives and utensils. He has a bow grasped in his left hand and a large rabbit dangling from his belt. He smiles broadly at me and I can't help return his expression. His dark brown hair is falling in his eyes as he walks toward me.

"Fancy seeing you here," his silky voice says. I laugh shortly and rise to my feet. He lets out a low whistle as he looks down at my kill. I feel a strange sense of something like pride welling up in my chest. He sets his bag down and kneels down to inspect my shot. I see a look of appreciation spread across his face as he examines it.

"You weren't planning to drag this out alone were you?" He looks up at me from his position. I shake my head and smile.

"I was just trying to devise a plan actually." He laughs and goes to his bag to retrieve a thermos not much unlike my own. I remember my bag and motion that I will be right back. I walk toward my oak tree and snatch my own game bag from where I abandoned it a few minutes ago. I sling it quickly over my shoulder and leap back through the trees. I nearly trip trying to slow myself down when I set eyes on Hunter again. He's not alone anymore. There is a tall man standing beside him, looking down at my deer. I gulp, because I know exactly who this dark handsome stranger is supposed to be.

I grasp my hands on my bow tightly and steel my nerves as I approach. Both of them look up at me and I am struck by how similar their faces are. The same deep grey eyes and prominent noses almost mirror each other. Gale Hawthorne has dark black hair though, like me, like my mother. His son's hair is a deep brown in comparison. I halt a few paces away from them and the three of us just stare at each other for a moment. My heart starts staccato beating through my ribcage. Gale Hawthorne…Gale Hawthorne. He's staring at me, right into my eyes. Probably thinking like everyone else does that I look exactly like my mother, except I have my father's blue irises.

Hunter clears his throat and my brain seems to shake from its paralyzed state. I smile weakly and join them beside my kill. I am acutely aware of the forest sounds now, the feel of my skin, the smell of the earth. I mirror Hunter's earlier action and drink from my thermos.

"So," I say softly and look between the two men briefly before returning my gaze to the doe, "You wouldn't mind helping me drag this to the butcher would you?" Gale is staring at me again. It looks like he is trying to swallow a lump in his throat. I remember briefly how people tell me I sound like my mother too. Maybe I've spooked him.

"I mean, if you've got too much to carry I can always get my kid brother to lend a hand. This is the biggest thing I have ever taken down, he'd be thrilled to say he helped," I try to sound nonchalant. Hunter is beaming at me again; he seems really pleased for some reason.

I am startled when Gale speaks. His voice is deep, "I've got a rope. We can tie her legs up and drag her easy." As he says this he pulls a large circle of rope from inside a pack on his back.

I nod in response and he kneels down. I help him force the legs together to tie them. When I am this close to his hands I see how wide and rough they are. _Worker's hands_ , calloused and scarred. We are kneeling with the doe between us. I look up into his face of concentration and a wave of fifty emotions push through my every pore. My mother probably did things like this with him daily, bent in close proximity inspecting game and resetting snares.

I am struck with the force of this realization. And the feeling that his handsome face was probably even more dashing in his youth. His features are marred by burnt scars on one side of his face and I wonder how he got them. Was he with my parents when they both survived the explosion that killed my aunt? His hair is definitely graying considerably in many areas and his face has wrinkled lines creasing near his eyes and mouth. I can see how my mother was attracted to him. I feel a pang of emotion again and wince.

He must sense my expression, because he looks up at me. His eyes are searching my face too now. We're so close that he can probably see every fleck of blue.

"I'm sorry," I say for some unknown reason. I don't even know what I am talking about. Hunter is hovering beside us, silent and tense.

I clear my throat and try to fix my strange words, "I just…you look different than I thought you would. Different than the picture we have in our book of memories." I feel my cheeks flushing slightly and he looks confused. I try and back-peddle over my words again.

"I just mean, you look so much like…Seam," I finish lamely.

A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth and I stand up swiftly. I feel all sorts of embarrassed, because I was thinking of other things. Things along the lines of: _hey, isn't it weird that my mother used to be in love with you and you with her?_ Or _wow, this is creepy I feel like you did this with her a thousand times, milling about in the woods together…alone._ Or, _you sure are a lot more handsome than you should be for her choosing my father over you._ This last one grosses me out because this man is easily fifty years old. He must work out or something.

"Yeah, he gets that a lot," Hunter says in response to my 'Seam' comment. I imagine he's heard the old stories about life in District 12 during our parent's childhood. The hardships they endured with class divisions and poverty. I choke out a short laugh and rub my hands together awkwardly.

"You're Seam too," Gale says to me softly as he appraises me again, "You're the spitting image of sixteen year old Catnip." My puzzled look must register to him because he laughs heartily before he edits his statement.

"Katniss' nickname from when we were kids, Catnip." I nod at this weird explanation. She never told me she had a nickname, but then again anything associated with Gale Hawthorne is taboo in my household. I won't tell him that though. Thinking of my mother reminds me about her request at the mention of his presence in the district.

"She wants you and your family to come to dinner soon," I burst out suddenly. Both men are now quizzically looking at me. I smile sheepishly and tell them that she knows they are here. I briefly mention the day Hunter and I met, our mini-archery contest, and how pleased my mother was.

Hunter scoffs at the story, "That perfect double shot was a once in a lifetime thing…don't get cocky on me."

I roll my eyes at him and give him my best _you wish you were as good as me_ look. He smiles and laughs at my expression. The mood has lifted considerably. We begin trudging back toward town. Gale is dragging the deer with ease. I listen to the rough rumble of it pulling across the leaves and earth. I chat with Hunter about my usual hunting spots and where my snare lines are. I tell him the best places for berries and milkweed.

When I mention the large strawberry patch to the north I notice Gale's shoulders stiffen. He loses a bit of grip on the rope and stops for a moment to adjust his hands. I wonder briefly if the strawberry patch has some significance to him. Most people in town know where it is now. During the right season a lot of people wander in here to pick them in large tin buckets.

When we reach the meadow I notice that Rhye and his 'friend' have disappeared. There are a few children playing a hearty game of capture the flag though. One of them yells when he sees us and skips merrily over. I realize immediately that this must be the younger Hawthorne sibling. He smiles broadly and looks at our game with interest. He has a lighter shade of brown locks and his eyes are more hazel than grey. He must be about twelve.

"You got a deer!" His voice is high pitched still and he bounces excitedly between his brother and father. Gale smirks and glances at me, but Hunter is the one to respond.

"Nope, Rosemary did. We're helping her take it to the butcher. What are ya doin' squirt?" Hunter says as he ruffles his brother's hair affectionately. The younger boy just looks annoyed and turns his chubby face toward me. He eyes me critically for a moment.

"You look familiar," he says and places his hands on his hips in a way that almost makes me burst into a laugh. I raise my eyebrows and look down at myself and then back into his wide eyes.

"I'm Fischer," he forces his hand straight out toward me and I smile widely as I grasp it in my own. He gives my arm a rough shake and laughs at me.

"You've got a nice handshake," he assesses as he releases my hand. I cock my left eyebrow and look at Hunter who is rolling his eyes. Gale is smirking again; I wonder if he knows how to smile. Maybe he only smirks.

"A good strong handshake is important, that's what my nana says," Fischer informs me as he glances over his shoulder distracted by the loud raucous laughter of his playmates. Someone appears to have stolen a flag from one of the boy's waists. Fischer bites his lip, torn between the excitement of capture the flag and the inspection of our game. Capture the flag wins the battle and he scurries away, yelling his 'see you later' to us in general.

We continue silently toward town and I become increasingly aware of the fact that we will be passing my father's bakery to reach the butcher. I groan slightly when I catch sight of him sweeping the entrance to the shop and waving at a person passing by. He sees us after a few moments and stops mid-sweep. I grit my teeth and steel a glance at my companions. This might get awkward; _did someone turn the heat up a notch?_

"Rosie," Dad calls to me. He has a strange look on his face as he lets his eyes travel over the two men with me. I plaster the best smile I can muster on my face as we approach. My dad smiles weakly back and sweeps the large pile of dirt roughly to the side of the entrance. He sets the broom carefully beside the door and steps forward to meet us on the cobbled street.

"Dad, I got a deer! My first one! Hunter and Mr. Hawthorne are helping me bring it to the butcher," I say cheerily.

I do feel partially proud and excited about my kill, but wary of this former love triangle encounter. Dad smiles broadly though and steps forward to examine my doe. He stands close beside me as Gale sets it on the cobblestones between himself and Hunter. Gale Hawthorne is a lot taller than my dad and everything about him is much darker. In them I truly see the difference between what my parents called "Seam" and "Town".

"She looks nice and big. Good venison burgers and steaks for sure," Dad says as he wraps an arm around my shoulders and pats me lovingly. I smile at him and feel that sense of pride again.

"I can't wait to tell mom," I feel the excitement seeping through my words now. Dad smiles and then furrows his brow slightly as he looks around.

"She didn't go out with you today?" He knows that she spends every Saturday hunting alongside me; it's our best haul of the week normally. It is evident that his question is really asking, _is she having an episode?_ Dad searches my eyes for a moment and I swallow thickly. He probably doesn't want to mention her bed ridden tendencies in front of the Hawthorne's.

I settle for a meager, "She's not feeling well today." We both leave it at that and my father turns his gaze to the two men beside us. He smiles a half-smile that's lacking the normal florescent glow.

"Gale, how are you? And you must be Hunter." My father extends his hand and Hunter grasps it. They shake firmly and I think about the youngest Hawthorne. I wonder what he thinks of his brother's handshake and what he would say about my father's. Gale is just nodding continuously as he watches my father.

"Nice to meet you Mr. Mellark. I've um, heard some great things about you," Hunter's voice sounds more husky. _Heard great things about my father, huh?_ I wonder if most of that was in History class at school, or whether his family was actually allowed to mention the Mellark name when he was growing up.

"You look good Peeta," Gale says deeply.

My father just stares back for a moment before he mumbles a thank you. My father isn't one to be at a loss for words and I see his jaw is set tight. I suddenly have a fear that he will have a black out right here in the square. His eyes look darker than usual and he seems oddly tense. I've seen him have a total of five black outs in my life. He gets seized by shiny awful memories that make him want to harm himself and my mother. He doesn't know who I am during those moments. It's painful. Mostly it's scary.

My father holds himself together though and squeezes my shoulder again before he turns back toward the bakery and insists that he has some work to do. I don't doubt that he does, but that doesn't usually stop him from talking to passersby on a normal day. I smile and watch him retreat to the safe haven of our bakery. The pastries in the shop look delectable today and I point them out to Gale and Hunter. Hunter makes some sounds of content and tells me I owe him a few pastries for his father's good deed. I roll my eyes, but I promise to bring them something.

The butcher is ecstatic over my deer and his happiness makes him pay me top dollar for my rabbit as well. I strike a deal with him that my family gets half the venison and he is pleased to oblige. He'll be selling the rest at a good price. Everyone loves the fresh deer steaks, because they are a welcome change to the regular meat selection sold in his shop. My coin purse dangles heavily at my side as we exit the shop.

"Thank you for your help," I say as I turn toward them. They both nod and I am struck by their similarities again. I smile genuinely.

"I'll let you know when my mother is feeling better. She'll be inviting you to dinner soon probably," I say as casually as I can. Even though the prospect of dinner with the Hawthorne's is something I would have scoffed at ages ago. Hunter smiles happily at my words and glances at his father.

"Well, see ya around," Hunter says and we wave awkwardly at each other as they begin walking away. Something causes me to step after them for a few paces and raise my voice over the din of a large group of people who are exiting the mayor's office.

"Mr. Hawthorne." Gale turns and looks at me with that strange glint again. I clear my throat and smile softly at him.

"It was nice to finally meet you," I finally say.

He swallows thickly and nods at me. After that I swiftly turn on my heel and dash into the bakery where my dad is waiting behind the counter. He is eyeing the street warily. I smile reassuringly at him. He pats my shoulder as I join him behind the counter. We watch the Hawthorne men walk swiftly across the square and out of sight. I feel my father's body lose some tension beside me.

He feels my concerned eyes because he turns to me and says, "I'm alright. Just wasn't prepared." I nod, because I don't really know what to say about anything. He pats my arm before he returns to sweeping the large pile of dirt out the door. I sigh and lean on the cold glass of the nearest display case. This day feels strange and long.

"How's your mother, really?" Dad says with a hint of worry. I smile faintly and look into his face. He too has lines etched into his pale skin, aging lines. My father is 48 years old now and I think to myself that when he is worried he looks much older. He's handsome too I muse. I try to boost my view of him to push out the invasion of handsome Hawthorne men.

"She wouldn't speak, but she did look at me. She drank the water I brought her and she hummed at me. Like when I brushed her hair and told her I loved her, she made a little noise in response."

My father nods and sighs. He understands that these are potentially good signs, because it's better than when she doesn't even realize we exist. I suddenly have an intense urge to hug him, so I quickly approach and fold myself into his warm arms. He envelopes me tightly and presses a kiss to the top of my head. He smells like flour and home. I smile into his shoulder and think about the mess of ingredients that will transfer from his clothes to mine when I pull away. Right now I am content to be my father's little girl for a moment and forget about sad things, the rest is the concern of later moments.

"I love you Dad," I say simply, it sounds muffled against his shoulder. He squeezes me tighter and murmurs that he loves me too, "Help me clean up?"

Soon we'll finish the clean up here and head home to Rhye and mom. I'll gut, skin, and cook the rabbit I have left. And Dad will go lay with mom and stay with her like he always does. I'll sit with Rhye on the couch and we'll silently exchange glances that say _she'll be better tomorrow, she loves us._


End file.
